


A Sense of Completion

by townshend



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eileen and Henry are having the same nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been two weeks since Henry Townshend's living nightmare had engulfed the South Ashfield Heights apartment building, since Henry had killed Walter Sullivan, since he and Eileen had escaped the hellish prison they'd been living in.

After Walter had died, the nightmare world had fallen away around them. Eileen had immediately been rushed to St. Jerome's Hospital for treatment of her extensive injuries (both physical and psychological, Henry knew), and Henry had returned to his life in room 302, loathe as he was to be there. With the back room sealed shut once again, Henry tried to convince himself it had all been a dream, but the convincing wasn't working too well - when the wind would whip across the building causing the window to clatter or he'd turn the TV to the wrong channel and be met only with white noise and video fuzz, his heart would pound in his chest, adrenaline pumping, nerves coming alive. He wanted nothing more than to get out of the apartment, but he had no money for a hotel, no friends to stay with, and nowhere else to go. The lease was only another couple of months, he told himself - and while originally he'd been inclined to renew it, he was glad now he'd never actually turned in the paperwork.

Even sleeping had become difficult - much of what he'd seen in Walter's world had been through dreams, or what he'd perceived as dreams, and trying to sleep now knowing he'd wake up in the same bed he'd always woken up from was challenging. Some nights he'd end up asleep on the couch, passed out with the TV still on low and an open bottle of something strong nearby. Sometimes - like last night - he'd actually manage to get to bed, but not without a saint medallion around his neck and a gun on the bedside table.

Henry had rolled out of bed that morning finally around 11:30, righting himself, blinking sleepy eyes around the room. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he was glad he had. No dreams. No nightmares. Nothing. The alcohol had helped.

Standing, Henry moved from the bedroom and towards the bathroom across the hall, running a hand through his hair as he did. He stopped at the mirror and sighed. Henry felt so exhausted, and although he'd slept, the face in the reflection sure didn't look like it had gotten any rest. He'd been this way ever since first waking up to find the door chained - and although, of course, it wasn't any longer, Henry figured the after-effects would remain until he left this apartment. He hoped so, anyway. Thinking of them following him to a new place scared him. Was he running away? Would Walter chase him?

 _Of course not. Walter's dead._ Henry remembered that well enough. There had been so much blood, so much screaming--

Shaking his head, Henry turned, flipping the shower on. The water ran clear, which was relief enough, and he tugged off his t-shirt and boxers, tossing them on the floor. He really needed a laundry hamper. He'd always meant to pick one up. Maybe he'd do that today. Henry made excuses to leave the apartment these days.

As Henry waited for the water to heat up (the pipes in this place were notoriously slow), he turned to examine his reflection in the mirror again. It wasn't something he consciously did, but by the time he looked, he couldn't seem to look away - the water had long-since gotten hot, the steam beginning to build up in the bathroom, curling around his ankles, hitting the glass of the mirror, fogging it up. Henry watched. As his reflection got blurrier, it seemed to distort, to change. He leaned in closer to the mirror, trying to see what it was. His eyes widened as the image became clear to him - blood was spread across his chest, and as the blood dripped down, five numbers were revealed--

Henry gasped, a hand going to his chest, and when he looked down, it wasn't just his _reflection_ that was marked, it was--

A hand grasped his shoulder, yanking Henry around, sharply, his hips banging hard into the counter. Henry cried out in pain and shock, his eyes closing against the sight of his attacker. He didn't have to look. He already knew who it was.

The voice and breathing were hot and heavy in his ear - Henry could feel the man's nose brush against his cheek and he felt his stomach lurch, revolted.

"I'm not done yet, Henry," the voice said. "You're mine."

There was a hard blow to the back of his head, and--

 

Henry awoke with a start.

There was sweat covering his skin, dampening the sheets. He sat up in bed, his breathing ragged. His head was pounding.

So that had just been a dream. A nightmare. But it felt so real…

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head, trying to steady his breathing, trying to convince himself it hadn't really happening, his eyes darting down to his thankfully unmarred chest as his mantra repeated in his head: _Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream._

"Walter," he whispered quietly. He thought he heard distant laughing in the back of his head, threatening to drown the mantra out. Henry was certain those words were the only thing, in this moment, that was keeping him sane.

The dream had been realistic in every way. He really had been planning on getting up and getting out of the house that morning (to go see Eileen in the hospital, actually) and until now, he'd been planning on showering, as well. His first move now, however, was not to get into the shower, but to rush to check the door.

Nearly springing out of bed, Henry launched himself to the bedroom door and threw it open, taking big, fast steps down the short hall and turning towards his tiny entryway. To Henry's substantial relief, the chains and locks were gone, just as they had been for two weeks now. The message on the door, however, still remained - unremovable no matter how hard and long Henry scrubbed at it. _"Don't go out! -Walter"_.

"Thank God," Henry murmured, going to the door and opening it just a crack, just to make sure. It was practically a morning ritual - even when he didn't plan to leave. Closing the door, he locked and deadbolted it before turning and heading to the bathroom.

Flipping the water on, Henry quickly pulled off his t-shirt and boxers. He hesitated only a moment in front of the mirror, ultimately deciding he didn't want to linger there. Climbing directly into the shower, Henry stood under the blast of hot water, resting against the tiles, and sighed.

He'd been dreaming of Walter almost non-stop since the incident, which wasn't exactly a surprise. The dreams seemed to slowly be getting more and more intense, though, and if they continued, Henry wasn't sure he wanted to know how they'd end up. He cringed, mind wandering back to the conversation he'd had with the police and the building's superintendent when he and Eileen finally escaped from Walter's Hell. She was rushed to the hospital, leaving him to explain things - the police had little more than a theory about a copycat killer, and understandably, Henry was their number one suspect. He tried to explain the story, but his voice shook too much, he broke down too much, and telling the police he'd seen the murders of Cynthia, Andrew, and Richard wasn't helping his case. It wasn't until Frank Sunderland stepped in with a firm, "There's no way anybody was getting in or out of that apartment" that the police began to realize there's no way Henry could have killed them, and when Eileen was conscious long enough to tell them Henry had helped her, had _saved_ her but not much else, they let him go. Still, Frank had looked worried, and he'd taken Henry aside, saying something like, "Listen, son, I'm worried about you… you, ah, you might need to get yourself some help, you know?" He'd said he knew the name of somebody who could help, somebody who'd even talked to his own son before, but Henry refused.

He was beginning to reconsider. It was becoming clear to him that he wasn't all right. He _did_ need some help. He needed it badly.

Henry washed his hair so showering wouldn't be a total waste and stepped out, toweling off. He tossed the now-damp towel over the shower curtain rod and sighed, moving back into his room to get dressed. He definitely needed to go see Eileen. The dream had shaken him, but even more than his own life he was worried about hers. The murders were all done methodically, and in order - from one to nineteen. Twenty-one wouldn't come before twenty, which meant if Henry was scared for himself he needed to be even more worried about the one that came before him.

The hospital wasn't too far from South Ashfield Heights, but it took some time when one didn't have a car. The subway was bustling with people, which was a relief. Henry moved towards the subway map and took a moment to work out the best route before making his way to the proper line. The ride was mostly uneventful, although it gave him time to contemplate the dream further. If Walter killed him, and carved those numbers on him Henry would become a ghost like the others, wouldn't he? There'd be no Heaven, no Hell, no peaceful afterlife - he'd be trapped forever, trapped inside Walter's world, trapped inside himself, degraded into something that wasn't alive but wasn't dead, either. For how long? For eternity? Did it even matter? Walter was dead, and he was _really_ dead. Wasn't he?

"Just a dream," he told himself again. He'd said it aloud, but nobody in the train car had noticed.

When the subway stopped Henry got out, quickly taking the stairs above ground and beginning to look around for the hospital. The apartments, the subway, the hospital - all places he'd seen in Walter's world, all places that looked so different when they were bustling with life. Still, in a way, it was unsettling…

Main Admissions helped him find Eileen's room, and Henry was surprised to find it was being guarded by a security officer. The man looked bored, but he glanced at Henry as he entered, watching him carefully. Henry could tell already their visit was going to be kept short.

The hospital room was small and quiet - Eileen had the room to herself, thankfully, and she was snoozing quietly in the hospital bed, covers pulled up to her stomach. Henry felt at once awkward and out-of-place - he'd never known Eileen well, and suddenly they'd been thrown together in a terrible situation and been forced to get to know each other, but Henry couldn't help but think that Eileen never would have wasted a thought on him otherwise. He wasn't unattractive, really, but he wasn't outgoing, either. Eileen was beautiful, but popular - the sort of girl in high school who'd had plenty of friends, while Henry's closest friends had always been the teachers. Now that Henry was standing in Eileen's hospital room, he realized he really didn't know her at all.

She stirred - she hadn't really been asleep, then - and turned her head towards him, eyes fluttering open. She looked terrible. She was all hooked up to IV drips and oxygen and a heart monitor (in the movies, Henry mused, those always made faint beeping noises, but this one was silent, just a reading on a screen), her exposed arms were bandaged and the broken one had been re-splint. Her face was cut up, her eyes were black. She had bruises across most of her skin. Henry felt his stomach twinge. Walter didn't just kill people - that much had been evidenced when he'd killed Cynthia and reinforced when Henry had found Eileen's body. Walter beat people first. Would he do that to Henry, or did he only do it to the women? He hadn't tortured Andrew or Richard…

"Henry," Eileen croaked. She sounded terrible, but almost happy. "You came."

"Yeah," Henry said. He slowly moved to a chair beside the bed, seating himself in it. "Eileen… have you had a lot of visitors?"

She nodded, her gaze moving to the bedside table. Henry followed it, noticing a vase of flowers. The card stuck in them read "Eileen, Thoughts with you in your time of recovery. -Frank Sunderland".

"Oh," Henry said, "that's nice." He probably should have brought a card, or flowers, or something with him. Damnit. "Do you know how long you'll be here?"

"I don't know," she said. "But that's okay. As long as it takes to fix me." She looked down, her gaze resting on the hospital blanket. "I'm glad you're not stuck in here, too."

He felt a twinge of guilt. He should have been. "I'm sorry," he replied. It must have been a strange reply, because she turned her gaze towards him with a quizzical look on her face. Feeling that he should elaborate, Henry hesitated. "It's just… I didn't protect you, enough," he admitted. Although Eileen had been with him throughout Walter's nightmare world, in some cases, Henry had felt truly alone. Because of Eileen's injuries, he usually had to leave her behind somewhere safe when he had to climb up ladders or dive down holes, and she was too hurt and in too much pain to safely defend herself, so he had to worry about himself as well as her, too. Sometimes he wouldn't be fast enough squeezing off a shot, or swinging back a weapon, and the monsters would get past him and attack Eileen - and on one chilling occasion, Henry had watched as Walter caught up to them, laughing as he'd raised his baseball bat and brought it down over Eileen's head. Henry had fired his entire clip into Walter, but nothing kept the man down forever.

No. No. That wasn't right. Henry had killed him once and for all. The mother's flesh. That had done it.

But… the hospital really seemed to be helping Eileen. Her physical wounds weren't exactly fading just yet, but she was forming complete sentences. She was talking like… herself. She was Eileen again. Before, when they were in the strange, warped apartment building, and they'd found the umbilical cord in the box in Sunderland's room, Eileen had suddenly lost it, speaking in a strange, whining voice… and it hadn't been the first time either, the first time her eyes had gone dead and she'd murmured Henry's name, detached, vacant, _Walter_.

When he looked in Eileen's eyes now, all he saw was Eileen. It was a relief.

"You should be more worried about yourself," she said, slowly. "It doesn't look like you're sleeping well."

"Oh…" Henry trailed off, feeling awkward. "Yeah, it's just… a dream."

"A dream?" Eileen repeated the last two words, and Henry assumed she was asking for clarification but the tone in her voice was suddenly tight, her eyes lit up in fear.

"It's not…" Henry held up a hand, trying to ease her nerves. "Like that. I mean, there wasn't a hole. No chains on the door."

"Did you see…" Eileen's voice was quiet as she choked out the next word, " _Walter_?"

Henry's teeth grit. "You aren't, ah, having them too, are you?" he asked, softly. Eileen's eyes were brightly-lit by the iridescent hospital lighting, illuminating every detail within them. Henry wasn't sure he liked the things he saw there.

"No!" she cried, suddenly. Henry jerked away as Eileen's body went rigid and she suddenly clasped hands over her ears, fingertips digging into the skin in her scalp and the side of her face. "No! No! No, no, no!"

Henry watched in horror as Eileen thrashed about, managing to rip away the oxygen tube that was in her nose. The security officer rushed in, and Henry jumped to his feet. Nurses poured in after. Suddenly, the heart-beat monitor _was_ making noise, beeping loud (was Henry imagining it?) as Eileen screamed, as she thrashed against the tiny hospital bed, and he could watch only for a moment before the security guard forcefully pulled him out.

After waiting nearly an hour in an uncomfortable chair in the hallway, Henry was confronted by a small nurse.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave the hospital," she said. "Eileen isn't getting any better. It's going to take some time to keep her calm and stabilized."

Henry didn't bother to argue. He already felt guilt building in his stomach. How stupid was he, to mention to a victim the man who'd nearly succeeded in beating her to death? She was talking correctly, but she wasn't healed over what had happened - not by a long shot.

Still, Henry pondered her reaction as he rode the subway home. It was later in the evening by now, and much fewer people were on the subway than they had been previously, giving a chilling backdrop to the things he was considering. For Eileen to react so violently was practically the answer to the question he'd posed. She'd almost certainly had the same dreams he had in theme, and the thought gave him chills.

 _Just a dream,_ he told himself, leaning his head against the glass subway window and closing his eyes. _Nothing more than a dream._ The sound of the subway provided a gentle white noise background, and Henry began to feel his lack of sleep catching up to him. Before he knew it, he was--

\--standing in a small chapel. There was stained glass all around in a beautiful display. Small, wooden pews were all lined up, well-worn but well-loved. For a long moment, Henry was alone - until the door suddenly opened. Henry spun, panicked, realizing he didn't have a weapon, when he saw who'd opened it. A small line of children began filing into the chapel, each holding a well-worn book in their hands. They neatly and orderly filled the pews, each passing by Henry, who stood and watched them, bewildered.

At the end of the chain was an older-looking woman, dressed strangely, who moved down the small passageway between the two groups of pews to the pulpit and table in the front. The kids were all eerily silent, and Henry watched her with a sort of heavy fear they all seemed to echo just by way of stony silence - until he suddenly felt a tiny tug on his pant leg.

Looking down, Henry saw one of the small children was standing right beside him - but unlike the rest, who'd all ignored him as if he was not even there, this one looked right into his eyes - and it was a face Henry recognized.

"Hey," the boy said, slowly. "Come and sit by me. We all have to sit down and listen to the sermon. Sit with me." And with that, he slunk away, and Henry quickly followed, his mind racing. This couldn't be real, could it? Wasn't he just on the subway?

But sit in the pew he did, right next to Walter Sullivan, eight years old, sharing a hymnal as the old woman began to speak, her quavering but still-strong voice filling the chapel. Henry couldn't really understand what she was saying - it wasn't like she was necessarily speaking in another language, but her words were garbled and unintelligible, the way things in dreams could sometimes be. Henry was about to turn and ask the younger Walter what she was talking about, but when he glanced over, suddenly--

"Are you listening, Henry?"

His blood ran cold. Walter wasn't a child anymore. Instead, Henry was sitting next to the man in the long blue coat, the man with stringy, long blonde hair hanging in his face, a small smile on his lips. Henry's heart pumped almost out of his chest, and he threw himself back, suddenly screaming--

 

"-- _No, get away!_ "

The uniformed woman stared at him, eyes wide.

Henry looked around - he'd just snapped awake. He was still sitting in the subway car, but everyone else in the car was staring at him, the silence thick and heavy in the air.

"Sir," the woman said, quietly, "I just need to check your fare, please."

Henry sucked in a deep breath, then let it out, nodding slowly. Wordlessly, he dug into his jeans pocket, producing a crumpled paper ticket he'd bought at the St. Joseph's Hospital stop. She surveyed it for a moment, then him, and nodded, moving down the line.

Hands shaking, Henry quickly jammed the ticket back into his pocket, trying to ignore the eyes that still stayed on him.

_I'm always watching you. I'm **always** watching you._

 

Henry wasn't exactly burning with enthusiasm to get back into his apartment, but he was looking forward to get a shot of vodka and a cold splash of water in his face (though not necessarily in that order). Coming out of the subway station exit, he saw South Ashfield Heights and its recognizable U-shape immediately, and he walked towards it, letting out a cloud of breath in the chilly autumn air.

What had that dream been about? How many more of them would he have?

As he got closer to the building, he turned his gaze up towards the windows in boredom, scanning the ones still alit. Richard's was dark and empty, and Henry felt a pang of guilt hit his stomach. The apartment would probably be filled up soon enough, Henry figured, but for now it was vacant, still full of Richard's things.

Turning his gaze to the other side, Henry caught a glimpse at his own window - but stopped suddenly when he saw that his apartment, unlike Richard's, wasn't dark and empty at all.

Standing in the windows, staring right back at him, was Walter Sullivan.

Henry's mouth went dry and his stomach shot up into his throat. He suddenly sprinted towards the entrance, throwing the doors open and rushing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he got to the third floor, he sprinted down the hall, choking, gasping, unable to believe what he'd seen.

His apartment door was wide open. Henry stopped short of it, staring into the living room, feeling defenseless - feeling like a wild gazelle at the mercy of a hunting lion.

Henry slowly took one step into his apartment and then another, past the door and into the living room. No one was there. He turned his gaze down the hall, but it seemed empty, too. The room in the back was still sealed off.

Letting out a deep breath, Henry moved back into the living room, intending on closing the door. Just as he turned towards the entranceway, however, the door suddenly slammed shut.

_"Don't Go Out! - Walter"_

Henry stared at the words. There was clearly something wrong.

Henry quickly turned back into the living room. These were the windows he'd seen Walter in. Maybe there was something here…

 _No,_ he told himself. _You're just… you're dreaming. The subway, you fell asleep, right? You never actually woke up. So wake up now. Wake up!_

Henry didn't wake up.

Collapsing against the couch, Henry squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"Alright, Henry," he told himself. "Calm down. Think. _Breathe._ "

When he opened his eyes again, however, Walter was standing right there in front of him.

 

Before Henry even had time to react, Walter had sent whatever he was holding - Henry hadn't had time to see what it was, but it was _heavy_ \- across Henry's face, throwing it forcibly to the side. Between the pain and the shock of the blow, Henry screamed, the sound muffled against the impact. He only realized what he'd been hit with (the side table _lamp_ of all things) once he heard the thump of Walter tossing his makeshift weapon to the floor and the living room light dimmed considerably.

Henry felt his mouth filling with blood, the inside of his cheek cut open by his teeth. His ears were ringing, eyes refusing to focus. His heart was going a mile a minute, beating over and over and over again as his blood ran alternately hot and cold through his veins. Before he could react, however, Walter suddenly struck again - apparently unsatisfied with the lamp, he'd switched instead to his own fist, striking Henry again, throwing his head to the other side. Walter wasn't holding back - Henry coughed, suddenly choking, spitting out the blood collecting in his mouth, trying to get a hold of his bearings, trying to ignore the blows to his head and collect his wits long enough to strike back, but his head was _killing him_ \--

And somewhere between the ringing in his ears and his brain practically screaming _Do something! Do something! Don't let it end here!_ over and over again, Henry could hear that Walter was laughing.

Pulling up his leg, Henry kicked blindly, vision barely working, launching his foot towards Walter's blurry form. He managed to hit the man with his second kick, directly into his thigh, and Walter stumbled with the force of the blow. Henry launched back to kick again, aiming to send Walter back across the coffee table, to get to the door, wrench it open and sprint down the hall - he had to get away, to get somewhere safe, to get--

_Eileen._

Henry let out a scream that was part fear, part anger, and part frustration, kicking again, but Walter was ready this time, grabbing ahold of Henry's leg and pulling, sliding Henry off the couch and onto the floor. With luck, Henry managed to scramble off the floor and to his feet before Walter could make his next move, backing up suddenly, nearly stumbling, dizzy and confused, his back hitting the kitchen bar counter which he reached behind to grab onto for support. Walter stood there a moment, watching Henry, and Henry watched Walter, gasping for breath. In his mad scramble, he'd managed to knock one of the bar chairs over, and his leg throbbed in pain, but it had nothing on his _head_. His mouth couldn't seem to stop bleeding, and with a jolt of fear, Henry felt a sudden trickle of blood down his face, too.

"Eileen," he choked, suddenly. It was all he could think about, all he could say. Walter watched Henry with pursed lips, a small smile on his face.

"Don't worry about her, Henry," he said, his voice quiet but every syllable clear. He sounded… calm. Happy. At peace. "Everything was done in order. You're the last one. My Receiver of Wisdom."

Henry felt his heart drop.

"She's… dead?" he said, the words sounding foreign and vague, like they were far away, removed. Of course she was. Twenty came before twenty-one. _Honestly, Henry, didn't you learn that in grade school?_

Henry shook his head, quickly, the dizziness intensifying. "Get out of my head," he choked, feeling his knees beginning to buckle. The pain was too much, the room was starting to spin. He tightened his grip on the bar, trying to hold himself up. Get to the door. He just needed to get to the door. The door, the door, he--

Henry let go of the bar, pushing off from it, stumbling forward, but his vision suddenly went black and he felt himself falling towards the floor, his weight dropping right at Walter's feet.

" _No,_ " he gasped, " _Eileen,_ " but that was the last thing he said.


	2. Chapter 2

The back room had been sealed off.

After killing Walter, getting Eileen to the hospital, and being interrogated by the police, all Henry wanted to do was sleep - real sleep, not sleep where he woke up having dreamed an all-too-real dream where someone died. And yet, the first place he went after leaving the police station was the hardware store, where he shelled out the last few dollars he'd made on selling a photograph to a magazine to buy whatever he needed to put the wall he'd knocked down back up. He'd ended up with a good amount of dry wall on the carpet, but in the end, he'd managed to seal the hole back up, and as far as he was concerned, he was once again living in a one-bedroom apartment.

Except that it hadn't really worked. The adage "out of sight, out of mind" didn't always seem to apply. Every once in a while, he'd swear he heard noises coming from behind the wall, and nothing would be able to erase the knowledge of what he _knew_ was there and what had happened in there.

When he woke up, the newly-made wall had been knocked down. The smell of the air was still heavy and stale, like it had been the first time Henry had discovered this room. He slowly stirred, wincing, head pounding. Attempting to flex his arms, he found they'd been heavily tied down, but he was sure he was upright, suspended on something…

Cracking his eyes open, Henry waited for his vision to slowly come in.

No doubt about it. He was in the sealed-off room. He couldn't see Walter anywhere, but he couldn't see much of anything at all. The light was dim - as far as he could tell, the only light was a pair of candles on either side of the small table in front of him. He struggled again against the bindings, and that's when it dawned on him - he was _tied up to the cross._

Henry hadn't known what to do with the things in the room. With help, he'd gotten rid of the body, the blood, the organs - all the things that had caused the unbearable smell he'd nearly thrown up to the first time he'd entered the room. The police had taken hundreds of pictures and confiscated nearly everything, but they'd left the metal shelves, the wooden table, the refrigerator, and the strange cross in place, leaving Henry to take care of it all. He hadn't touched anything, though - he'd just sealed it up, determined to leave the apartment in the same condition in which he'd rented it.

Now he almost wished he'd taken everything down.

Trying to turn his head, Henry winced at the excessive amount of pain that shot between his temples. He groaned involuntarily, freezing suddenly when he heard small sounds behind him.

"Henry." It was Walter's voice.

Letting out a slow exhale, Henry's eyes slid closed again, head lolling back (as far as it could) against the back of the cross.

He already knew there was no way he was getting out of this. It was undeniable that Walter had a weapon - even if he hadn't come prepared with one, Henry could easily think of twenty-five things in ready proximity he could use as one. There were knives in the kitchen (a nice set he'd gotten on discount right when he'd moved out of his parent's house that had been sharpened within the last year), a taping knife he'd bought to put in the dry wall, a full bottle of wine in the fridge, bleach he could force Henry to drink under the kitchen sink, a baseball bat Henry kept in the laundry room, _plenty_ of lamps around the house…

But when Walter stepped into the dim light, all he had was a pair of scissors. Henry stared at them in horror - they were old scissors, a pair he recognized as being in his desk that he used in his scrapbooking. They'd been used to cut paper so many times that they'd dulled considerably over the years. In fact, he'd been meaning to sharpen them, but he hadn't ever gotten around to it, and now Walter was…

…Cutting the buttons off his shirt.

Full of precision, Walter's dexterous hands worked to slowly cut each button from its thread on Henry's shirt, tossing them carelessly to the floor when he was done. Slowly, the two sides of Henry's button-up separated, and when Walter had reached the top he ran his hands against Henry's chest under the bottom, parting the two sides completely, Henry feeling the warmth of Walter's too-gentle touch through his undershirt and absolutely hating it.

What was Walter going to do to him? Henry felt like a lamb being carefully prepared for sacrificial slaughter. The light from the candles seemed to catch Walter's eyes specifically, lighting them up, and for the first time Henry noticed they were brilliantly green. Honestly, he'd hoped he never would have been close enough to see them in the first place.

In movies, Henry realized, this was where the heroine (because it was always a _girl_ , wasn't it, in horror films?) would start pleading for her life, trying to appeal to the killer's morality, or sense of decency, or his "good side". Henry rarely saw it work in movies (maybe only long enough to give the killer pause that would allow his potential victim time to make a thrilling escape), and he knew it wouldn't work here. Walter didn't have "morality"; a "sense of decency". Really, Henry realized that Walter was so singularly minded that any appeals would only serve to drive his hand further, in the end.

And really, didn't he deserve it? He'd let Eileen die… all of this was his fault.

Walter finished cutting the cloth of his undershirt away and tucked the scissors into his coat. Henry watched, eyes half-shut, not able to bring himself to watch any closer than that. He pulled something else out after that - what was it? Henry strained against the bindings to see, but it was only after he'd nearly given up that the metal caught the light - it was a knife. A small knife - a paring knife?

Without hesitation, Walter plunged it into the skin of Henry's chest.

Screaming, Henry wretched against the cross, his hands clenching together. Walter hadn't even stabbed him very deeply - and for a moment, the pain was so strong and intense that Henry couldn't even tell that the knife inside him was _moving_ until he dared to look down at his own chest, eyes wide as he watched.

Walter had started on the far left side. He was carving something. He was carving _numbers_.

The "two" wasn't easy - the curves and sharp lines left Henry screaming in pain, but Walter worked diligently as if he was working at a still and silent canvas. He lifted the knife when the first number was done, admiring his work through the steady stream of blood pouring from Henry's chest. For Henry, all previous logic that begging with Walter would be useless was out of his mind. He trembled, tears soaking his eyes. All he could think about was how much he wanted to hold on to his crummy life - he thought of his crappy apartment, his nearly total lack of friends, his poor relationship with the parents he'd always said he hated. There was nothing to hold on to and yet he didn't want to lose it. He couldn't.

"Please stop," he cried, but Walter didn't say a thing. Instead, he pushed the knife in for the next number - a line straight down, a precise, straight "one". Henry screamed again, but Walter didn't pause between this number and the next one, doing them quickly one after another. Henry barely got a chance to breathe _"Walter, please,"_ before Walter had started in on the two, pushing the knife in a little further this time. Henry choked, feeling blood rising up his throat.

He wasn't going to survive this.

Walter paused for a long moment, his eyes heavy on Henry's mangled chest before slowly pushing in the last number, finishing his code. He smiled as he worked, eyes lidded. He looked… happy. Henry hardly noticed.

Walter unceremoniously dropped the paring knife to the floor as he finished. He slowly reached up to touch Henry's chest, and Henry gasped and cried in pain as Walter's fingers pushed against the fresh, deep wounds, feeling them, becoming intimate with them.

Walter said something so quiet Henry almost hadn't heard it - a hushed whisper Henry's panicked mind hadn't processed until Walter had pulled his hands back and turned away to the ceremony table.

 _"My beautiful Receiver."_

Henry watched as Walter picked up a small metal chalice and began murmuring to himself. Henry coughed, his vision beginning to blur. He felt warm - no, hot - and dizzy, lightheaded - were he not tied up, he'd certainly fall by now. Falling wouldn't be good, but maybe… sleeping…

His eyes drooped shut, his head falling forward, body sagging. He'd failed. He could… give up now. He could rest, couldn't he? Walter was talking, was saying something, but Henry couldn't process it, couldn't understand. He just wanted to sleep, to wake up and realize he'd been having a nightmare… _sleep…_

"Walter," he gasped, tasting blood in his mouth before, finally, he wasn't tasting, hearing, smelling, seeing, _thinking_ anything at all.


End file.
